


starving in some deep mystery

by Charis



Series: Watch Me Burn [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (Milady won't), (inasmuch as most of the acts don't actually happen), Adultery, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Athos will probably regret this later, Banter, Blow Jobs, Boot Masturbation, Coming Untouched, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, Explicit Sexual Language, F/M, Fantasy Sex, Frottage, Gangbang - Fantasised, Imaginary Exhibitionism, Light Dom/sub, Mentions of Dubcon, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Not My Fault, Office Sex, Overstimulation, Paperwork, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Season/Series 02, Public Sex, Rope Bondage, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Shaming, Size Kink, Teasing, Threesome - F/M/M, Tumblr made me do it, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Foreplay, Voice Kink, What did I just write?, fingerbanging, mention of choking, the author may regret everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 16:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7898938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charis/pseuds/Charis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“A good captain learns to delegate.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>He does look up now, brows quirking slightly, something darkly amused in his eyes. “Does he, then?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	starving in some deep mystery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadow_in_the_shade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_in_the_shade/gifts).



> For Rose, who prompted me with "Athos threatening to share Milady round the whole garrison with graphic detail included in said threat. obvsly he would never do it and they know it but THREAT KINK". I crawled under the table in abject shame more times than I want to think about writing this, and yet it didn't even include everything that was in my original plans ...
> 
> Athos is uncommonly chatty, which was kind of necessary for this to work. Just smile and nod and perhaps accept that he goes there in the right situation?
> 
> Title from Leonard Cohen's "Master Song".

Being bored is not a state Anne de Breuil de la Fère, alias Milady de Winter, alias countless other things, is accustomed to.

That’s not true; she’s certainly been bored innumerable times in her life, having to feign interest while dealing with marks and informants more times than she wants to count. But being bored in the presence of her husband, especially after a month apart, is an entirely new and thoroughly unwelcome experience, especially when she’d spent too much of the ride back into Paris thinking of a reunion that had involved a great deal more skin -- or at least a great deal _less_ paperwork.

But he sits there, head bent over his documents, and though he’d kissed her as soundly as she might’ve hoped almost before the door was closed he’s all but ignoring her now, and she’s impatient and frustrated and needy and it makes her restless.

“Can’t those wait?” she asks, not for the first time, and though he doesn't look up she can almost see him rolling his eyes.

“Tréville needs them by sundown.” He sounds thoroughly unperturbed by this, which only increases her frustration.

“You’re a dreadful husband.”

The words might have irked him once, but things are easier between them now than they have been in years and his brows just lift, amused. “Because I won’t drop everything and bed you the moment you return?”

She stands, saunters across the room towards him. He sets down the quill and watches, and though he does not protest as she squeezes into the space between his body and the table neither does he respond, even if his cock leaps with interest when she runs a finger down his groin. He just catches her wrist in one hand, returns it to her side. “Anne.”

There’s a warning in the words, one she recklessly disregards to lean down and kiss him. He lets her, even returns the kiss (and she can taste the leashed hunger there, knows he wants this as much as she no matter how calm he seems), but once again he only pushes her away at the end. “I really do have to finish this.”

“It wouldn’t take long.”

The look he gives her burns, does nothing to quell the heat spiralling through her. “We both know better.”

But she won’t be deterred so easily, not like this, and so she trails her fingers over the nape of his neck and along the shell of his ear, cards them into his hair. “Over the desk would be fast,” she suggests, thinking of being bent across it, her skirts shoved up and his breeches pushed down just enough to free his cock. The force of his thrusts could have her clit bumping against the table’s edge, giving a frisson of pain to the urgent pleasure, and she moans a little at the thought.

He removed her hand again, and she brings it back again, and this time he draws it away and doesn't let go, pulling her back around so she’s sitting on the desk before him. “Am I going to have to tie you up to get you to stop?” he asks, though he doesn’t sound half as aggrieved as he should, and there is no real irritation in his gaze.

She knows this game, and it has her smiling back down at him archly. “You could …”

For a long moment he just looks at her in silence, but then he rises, crosses the room to lock the door with a pointed click. When he turns back, there is an intensity to his gaze that makes her stomach churn, not at all unpleasantly. All he says is, “Strip.”

Her fingers fumble as she hastens to comply. She had expected him to move but he just stands there with his thumbs tucked into his belt and his back against the door, watching without a sound. Skirt, bodice, petticoats, shucked off and piled carelessly over one of the chairs, boots and stockings discarded underneath; the corset takes a bit longer, twisting her arms behind her back to loosen the laces enough that she can pull it over her head, and he almost smiles at that, one corner of his mouth tugging up before his expression smooths out once more. Her chemise is last and she lays it atop the rest, an airy drift of sheer linen.

The office is warm; she has no reason to shiver as his gaze rakes over her bare body but shiver she does nonetheless at the possessive gleam in those pale eyes. “Kneel,” he orders, and she moves to the centre of the room and does so, feeling anticipation coiling through her.

Waiting like this her senses always sharpen, all awareness heightening. She is acutely aware of the sound of his breathing, of her own, of his bootheels against the wooden floor and the creak of hasp and hinge as he opens a locked chest. The air stirs against her bare skin; her blood murmurs in her veins, echoing the slow, sweet ache that pulses low in her belly and between her thighs. He stops behind her, not quite touching, and she fights the urge to lean back against the warmth of his calves, wanting even so simple a contact almost as much as she wants him after their time apart.

“Arms,” is the next command, familiar to moments like this, and she folds them as best she can behind her back. He does touch her now, kneels down beside her, and his body is a warm pressure against her side as he secures the first rope above her elbow.

It's easy -- always too easy, dangerously so -- to lose herself in the touch of his hands, deft and impersonal as he winds the ropes around her body, and in his proximity. He arranges her with equally light touches, two fingers to the inside of one ankle coaxing her legs a bit further apart, palm below her ribs making her sit straighter. The ache both quiets and deepens as this continues: she still wants, perhaps even more than before, but it feels vaguely distant somehow, less focused, as if her head is floating. She still wants, but in the moment this is enough.

His hands withdraw all too soon, though, and her head jerks up as his wamth leaves her side. The motion has the ropes shifting suddenly, one length that had previously gone unnoticed making her gasp in surprise -- gasp and then cry out, as the indrawn breath just pulls it even tighter. “You _bastard_ ,” she grits out as she exhales, sudden arousal flooding her body.

He folds back into his chair, regarding her with undisguised smugness. “Something to keep you occupied until I finish.”

She tries to glare, but the effect is somewhat spoiled by the telltale flush she can feel staining her cheeks and suffusing her body. The culprit is a length of rope snug between her legs, one end tied to her bound limbs and the other up above her breasts, and each twitch of her arms and each inhalation makes it shift against her sex. She tries to hold still but it’s impossible to be still enough.

And he, maddeningly, just returns to his interrupted work, all but ignoring her. She tells herself it’s alright, if it means he finishes faster, but the quill keeps the same steady pace and she grows more and more impatient. Her bonds only make it worse; as her wetness dampens the rope and eases its way, each movement, however small, stokes the growing fire and she can't help the moan that slips free.

“If you’re finding the wait too difficult, I’m sure there’s someone who might be willing to help.”

Shifting only eases the ache in her thighs from kneeling and does little for the one cramping her belly. The rope between them presses against her as she draws in a deep breath. “Get over here, then.”

For an interminable moment all she hears is the scratch of quill over paper. When he finally answers, it’s in as dry a tone as she's ever heard from him. “I’m busy.”

“A good captain learns to delegate.”

He does look up now, brows quirking slightly, something darkly amused in his eyes. “Does he, then?”

There’s a warning there, but one she’s not entirely sure how to read. She shifts again, acutely aware of the floor beneath her, of the slight breeze that prickles against her bare skin, waking gooseflesh with its phantom caress, of the rope firm against her arms, taut around her chest and down the line of her body. “Surely someone could help you finish all that faster so you could tend to more important things,” she grumbles, jerking her chin emphatically at the stack of paper. “You've been training d’Artagnan for captaincy; why not make him take on a share of the work?”

“You may have a point. He does have a passing familiarity with you, as I recall.”

_You._ It takes her a moment to realise what he’s said, another to grasp the implication. _You_ and not _it_ , and it’s clear it isn’t the paperwork he means to delegate, and the prospect shouldn’t send heat rippling through her but it does. Athos’ eyes are on her, watching and weighing, and when the breath she was holding comes out in a small moan he bends his head back to his work, but not before she catches the faintest quirk of a smile.

“The boy you had has become a man,” he continues, even as that quill scratches across another sheet of paper. “Do you wonder what he’s grown into -- whether after eighteen months of marriage he's learned his way around a woman’s body? Surely you've thought about how he’s changed: if he would use his fingers or his tongue without being prompted, if he could make you come this time. Constance is an assertive woman, so she must have taught him what she enjoys.” He pauses and she fights the urge to fidget, trying to keep her breath steady. She’s not sure where he’s taking this, and the uncertainty just sharpens the anticipation.

“He hasn't learned enough control in a fight, so it’s likely he still needs a firm hand on him. A pity I can’t allow you the use of your own -- can’t have you thinking you control this. And not mine, when his task is to let me finish my own.” His silence as he contemplates it leaves her awash in images: d’Artagnan’s dark head between her thighs, his hands spreading her legs wide so he can lick into her, the steady murmur of Arthos’ voice somewhere above them setting his rhythm. Her body trembles, strains against her bonds as she imagines sword-callused fingers pushing the rope against her, exploring, dipping inside before withdrawing. He’d be a tease if Athos commanded it -- she knows the boy, knows how he still reveres her husband, and knows he’d do as Athos bade him.

(Would he have him fuck her?)

It makes her whimper despite herself -- the thought of being directed to straddle his thighs, of feeling the sweet ache as she sinks down onto him. The ropes around her ankles would allow enough motion for her to rock up and down, helped by his hands digging into her hips; the hitch of her breathing brings much-needed friction from the rope as it slips back and forth between her thighs --

“Tell me.”

His voice snaps across her awareness, ripples down her spine and just intensifies the shivers. “Would you let him --” she swallows down air, fights the urge to cry out at how her bonds tighten, grinds down against nothing at all, “in me --?”

The words are broken but he understands -- understands and chuckles, low and dark. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

And she’s close, god, so achingly close, caught between fantasy and reality, desperate for more, and she squirms to find it as she holds the image in her mind. Words are too much, too difficult, so close to fracturing --

He hums, and it’s as if he dragged fingers down her too-sensitised body with that sound, pushed everything just that much closer to the edge. “I’m delegating,” he says, “and I know how much you enjoy the feel of my seed in you, wife -- so yes, I’d let him come inside of you. I might even take a small break from my work to watch how you look at that moment, falling apart on another man’s cock.”

And his eyes are on hers, hot and intent in contrast to that cool, measured tone, and she cannot look away, lost in his words. She can almost feel d'Artagnan's presence there, hands tight on her hips, breath in hot puffs against her neck, the ends of his hair tickling overly sensitised skin and the thrust of him deep into her, deeper, and Athos’ voice low and rough, directing them both until it all becomes too much and the world whites out around her.

Her head has fallen forward when she comes back to herself, her body limp within her bonds. Her breathing is ragged, each gasp making the rope between her legs skip against sensitive flesh, and she tries to calm herself, to win a moment to clear her head. He is watching her when she straightens again, settling more comfortably, and the wonder mixed with smug satisfaction in his eyes quiets her sudden nerves. Whatever doubts either of them might have been feeling when this began seem to have been laid to rest.

“You _would_ enjoy that, wouldn't you? I should expect no better. Who knew I married such an insatiable creature -- to have just come and already want more.” He studies her from across the expanse of his desk and that intensity is still there, flaying her far more bare than skin, seeing beneath all of her masks and veneers as no one else has ever managed. “Tell me what you want.” _Tell me,_ is the undercurrent, _and perhaps I’ll be magnanimous._

“You.” With the fantasy gone she is aching, empty and hungry, the slick slip-slide of the rope barely whetting her appetite, keeping her shivering but not giving her enough.

“I still have work.” A smirk wins free at her imperfectly-suppressed moan. “Tell me, or that will be all you get.”

The idea of giving voice to those thoughts makes a whole new coil of heat spiral through her, makes her blood burn with shameful desire. But while the prospect of being left with nothing more than those same thoughts and her bonds might make her tremble it will leave her unfulfilled, and so she swallows and takes a breath. Before she can speak, however, there’s a rap on the door, short and sharp. “Athos?”

The door’s locked -- she _knows_ the door is locked, and yet Athos’ brows lift and the mere possibility that he might open it and let Porthos in while she’s kneeling here like this, naked and wet and needy, just feeds the fantasy even more. She bites the inside of her cheek, desperately trying to kept quiet.

“Go on without me,” Athos is saying, though, and she remains tense, breathless. “I’ve too much work, it seems.”

“You’re going to waste away in there,” comes the retort, but there’s laughter in it all the same. “Tomorrow, though -- or we’re breaking down that door and dragging you along bodily.”

As his steps clatter across the landing and then fade down the stairs she sighs, unsure whether it’s in regret or relief. Her husband’s expression is thoughtful, weighing her reaction, though as she watches the smirk returns. “Disappointed I didn’t open it -- that he didn’t see you like that, wet and waiting and desperate enough to welcome anyone who’d give you some relief? He thinks well of you, though surely after something like that it would be impossible. But perhaps he could’ve helped with your immediate problem enough that you might not care …”

_“I’ve too much to do,” Athos says, and Porthos’ gaze slides over to her._

_“I can wait, if it won’t be long.”_

_“Not too long.” His shrug is careless, as if there is nothing significant about his wife waiting naked and bound and silent, kneeling in the centre of his office. “You may as well make yourself comfortable in the meantime.”_

_The meaning in the words is plain, though it takes a moment for Porthos to understand, or perhaps to realise he’s heard them correctly. But once he does it doesn’t take long for his hands to drop to his breeches, undoing the laces. She knows what’s coming even before he fishes out his half-hard cock and drags the head against her lips. When she doesn’t open at the tacit demand he slaps her once, a ringing blow across the cheek, before fisting a hand into her hair and yanking her head back. “Suck,” he commands._

_“Anne,” her husband’s voice is a warning, and she whimpers and does as bidden._

“Would he choke you?” he asks, almost conversationally. “A large man, Porthos -- large in all ways, truly. Could you manage to take him and still breathe, or would that cock leave you gasping every time he pulls out, helpless and utterly at his mercy? Would he be kind, or would his own need outweigh yours -- and which would you prefer, I wonder?”

Her breath has shortened in response to the words, brief shallow gasps; she’s floating, falling, but the dizziness is too much, familiar terror edging out the desire, and a sound almost like a sob tears free of her throat. He notices -- he must notice, because suddenly there’s a hand gentle against her face (when had he left the desk?), pushing a lock of sweat-soaked hair back, stroking along her cheek. “You’d need him in you, though,” he murmurs, and she steadies herself in his touch, leans into the contact only to have it fall away. One finger drags through her slick folds, dips inside her, and the chuckle in her ear is wicked. “You’re certainly wet enough to take him. Perhaps he’d be just as hard as you need, all that strength turned against you -- perhaps he’d push you forward and fuck you into the floor, one hand holding you steady and the other turning your bottom red. You’d come from that, wouldn’t you? You’ve always enjoyed a bit of pain.”

And it’s easy, god, so easy to imagine the stinging slaps to her backside, delivered with the precise force she knows Porthos is capable of -- so easy to imagine them as a counterpoint to the feel of him deep in her cunt, thick and unrelenting, and she cries out, pushed over that edge a second time, propelled by nothing more than words and a single finger motionless inside her and the maddening sensations of rope against sensitive flesh.

Her body is still quaking with the aftershocks of pleasure when she realises Athos has moved away once more but is still talking, wicked amusement in his voice. “Pity he’s not that sort of man,” he is saying. “Porthos is nothing if not gentle; he’d be far more likely to take his time with you, to learn you -- find what makes you tremble and what makes you arch, to push three fingers inside you and make sure you’re ready before he so much as undresses, to push you over before he comes. Perhaps he’d kneel down there beside you, kiss you before he pulled you up onto his lap and onto his cock, facing away so that he can get one hand on your clit and the other on your breasts. He’d be slow, gentle but implacable. How many times, I wonder, could he bring you off before he finally loses the battle and fills that hungry cunt of yours?”

And she doesn’t want gentle, but what he’s describing has just enough of an edge to it that she finds herself moaning again, hips rolling in a slow rhythm, chasing that crest of pleasure, needing more, more, so much more --

She must say it aloud because he makes an amused sound low in his throat. “Well,” he says, clearly enjoying dragging it all out, “I suppose it would hardly be fair for you to give Porthos a distraction while he waits but to neglect Aramis.”

“God --” an explosive puff of air. He glances up through his lashes, quirks one brow

“No?”

“ _Yes_.” It's more needy whine than it is word, and he leans back in his chair with a smirk, studying her.

“Think what it might be like with them both -- Porthos hard inside you, stretching you so much it hurts, and Aramis’ mouth on you making you ache in a completely different way. You wouldn't be the first to wonder if they're lovers, when with how Porthos’ fingers would tangle in Aramis’ hair to guide him it's hard to imagine they aren't. But think: Porthos’ arm around your waist, not letting you move, not moving himself, just waiting while Aramis sucks on your clit, gives you his lips and tongue and teeth until you can't bear it anymore, sends you over again and again and again --”

And she can't -- god, she can't bear it, feeling that slick slide between her legs almost like a tongue, and between the sensations and the images it becomes (as he says, as he knows) too much, and she bites down on her lip to muffle a shriek as she comes yet again.

_When she knows herself once more, Aramis has moved -- no, she realises, they've moved her instead, turning her in Porthos’ arms so she's facing him. He's still motionless inside her, aside from his cock throbbing in time with the heart she can feel thudding against his ribs, and his hands are on her ass now, spreading her cheeks as something wet trickles between them. Callused fingertips move over her backside, rubbing in the oil, and as one circles puckered skin Aramis makes a surprised sound low in his throat. “Athos,” he says, “you haven't --?”_

_She can't see Athos’ face, not how she's turned, but she doesn't need to in order to imagine the smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Not in years,” he replies, and there's no rancor in it._

_“This may take a little time,” he tells Porthos over her shoulder, as if she wasn't there, and the bigger man just laughs. He might say something, too, but she doesn't notice, too busy trying to process the unexpected sensations of one oiled finger dipping past her rim and sliding into her, probing largely unexplored territory. Aramis swears, kisses her shoulder -- an almost absent gesture -- as the finger twists slightly._

_They're talking but she just squeezes her eyes shut and presses her face into Porthos’ shoulder and breathes, trying to get used to the unfamiliar pressure. Athos had done this a time or two back in Pinon, though never while her cunt was filled, but it had never worked half as well for her as it had for him and she’s forgotten what it’s like to be stretched this way. She wonders briefly what it feels like for Porthos, with Aramis’ fingers (two now, scissoring carefully, and this is different than it had been when her cunt was empty, makes her ache in wholly unexpected ways) brushing against his prick through the barriers of her body._

_A third finger joins the others, testing her readiness. It’s strange but not unwelcome and she finds herself craving that fullness more and more each time Aramis pulls back. Her hips strain within Porthos’ grip, trying to follow, and he loosens his arm just enough and makes a sound, half laugh and half needy hiss, as she lifts just slightly off him to impale herself fully once more on Aramis’ long fingers. “I think she’s ready for you,” he says, reaching down and flicking one blunt nail against her clit, and she whines and twists between them, caught between two sensations that are neither quite enough._

_“Milady?” Aramis asks, though by the humour in his voice she thinks she must surely know just how ready she is: dripping, aching, wanting so much more._

_She gropes back behind herself blindly, gets her fingers around his cock, the hot hard length of him still shut away behind breeches and drawers and entirely too much fabric. “Fuck me,” she demands, and Athos’ laugh floats over them all as if from far away._

_“Go on,” he bids, and she feels Aramis twitch in her grip at the implicit command. He pulls away from her; she cries out as he withdraws completely, leaves her feeling emptier than she would have thought possible with Porthos still buried to the hilt in her cunt, but the bigger man turns her face back to his and kisses her -- hard, hungry, tongue delving into her mouth while his fingers stroke almost soothingly at the top of her cleft, and she whimpers and leans into him._

“It’s been a while,” Athos murmurs -- Athos and not Aramis; none of her imaginings are real, and yet they _feel_ real with pleasure fogging her mind. She knows she is empty but she can feel the slow stretch he describes as surely as if Aramis truly were sinking into her, small rocking motions easing his passage. His words wash over her and she knows he’s talking, even registers what he’s saying at some level, but it’s sensations and actions and a play she’s taken the central role in, and in this moment the unreality of it is far more true than the wood hard beneath her legs and the press of woven rope against her skin and the distant clang of swords echoing from the yard below.

But he’s paused, and she knows he’s waiting for something but she can’t place what, and she manages to form his name, question and bewildered protest all at once, because he should know better, shouldn't leave her hanging, not when she’s pinned like that (between reality and fantasy, between the two men), and when he just laughs repeats it, more urgently. “Damn it, Athos --”

“Need more?” he asks, and there's no mistaking the smugness in his tone. “Two men in you, cunt and ass full, and it’s still not enough? You're insatiable, wife; I don’t know what I'm going to do with you.”

“I can --” her breath catches on a moan, “I can think of a few things that might help.”

“Such as keeping you thoroughly filled? I could, you know; there’s a whole garrison of Musketeers, and I’m sure most of them would jump at the chance to make use of you if I allowed it. I could tie you up in the practise yard, leave you exposed and open for anyone who might need some relieving. Just think, never knowing who might stop there, never knowing which of your greedy holes someone might want until he's pushing into you.”

It’s not what she’d been thinking of -- filled, yes, but not like that, not out where anyone might see, not where anyone might use her -- And yet the thought makes the desire twist tighter, sharper, makes her squirm despite herself, gasping at the way the friction intensifies; she’s all but forgotten about the rope until it rubs hard against her clit, catches just right. The pressure of the bonds on her body feels like hands holding her down, open, helpless and waiting and she's wetter than she can ever remember being, dripping with hot shame that does nothing to lessen the desire, and she sobs, shakes, shatters --

“How many of them could you take before it became too much, I wonder? How many of them could you let into your body before you beg them to stop -- or are you that much of a slut that you’d only ask for more?”

The words hold her there more surely than anything else, falling over and over again and never quite landing, keep her shaking and shivering, gasping for air as her body feels not her own. With each punctuated syllable it’s as if someone is driving into her, coming inside her, on her, leaving her a sodden, trembling mess -- and still he talks, still he continues, all without missing a beat.

“Maybe I’ll leave them those orders the next time Tréville calls me over to the palace. Delegate, you said, and clearly there are some lessons you need to learn. Could you handle being left like that for a half a day, do you think?”

She swears at him again, coming down just enough to be able to form the words -- calls into question his family, his virility, his honour -- but he just pushed his chair back from the desk with a scrape, standing. “Careful,” he warns, looming over her. “If you get too loud someone might come and investigate, and who knows what would happen then.” But his booted foot nudges between her splayed thighs, pressing up against slick, swollen folds, and she chokes on her retort. It’s so little and yet it’s almost too much after being without contact but she cannot pull away, not when it’s fractionally closer to the touch she so desperately needs.

As she sobs out his name he pushes his boot more firmly into her, rolls it so the rope slides against her, and she spreads her legs as wide as she can and grinds down desperately, feeling something _more_ for the first time since he’d bound her an eternity ago. Friction and firmness, inexorably nudging the rope to the side little by little, and she muffles a cry against his leg when it finally slips free to be replaced by the implacable pressure of a heavy rolled line of stitched leather. His voice is back again, low and dark, “Look at you: so hungry for a cock you’ll take even the palest substitute.” She tips her head back, searching for something to anchor herself in this maelstrom, but his face swims through a haze of tears -- it's too much, god, too much and never enough and he's right because she wants to tear open his breeches and swallow him down but she can’t do more than rock back and forth, chase another climax frotting against his boot, shamelessly wanton and beyond caring. If someone were to walk in at this moment she doesn't think she could stop and he knows it, and she can feel his chuckle vibrate through her entire body, just making everything ratchet ever-tighter. “What a desperate little slut,” he says, almost coolly, and she chokes her scream on the fingers he thrusts into her mouth as the words push her over the peak once again.

She’s sobbing when she comes back to herself, quaking with the aftershocks of pleasure, still all but oblivious to her surroundings. He’s moved -- that much she notices, with the lack of any stimulation at all -- but his fingers are on her ankles, working the knots free. Even that slight contact makes her shiver, her skin feeling tight and hot.

“Shh,” he soothes. The touch travels her body, loosening and unwrapping the ropes and rubbing the skin beneath, and she floats, hazy with the unexpected pleasure of it all, contrast to the sharpness of the orgasms he’s wrung from her. When he finishes he pulls her into his arms, spooning up against her back; the hard line of his cock against her backside fans the embers, though, makes her acutely aware of how empty she still is, makes her push back against him with a soft hungry sound.

“I leave you out there for the better part of a day, let the entire garrison have you, and you still want my cock.” There’s a satisfaction in his words, and she knows why -- can’t not, when she’s just as possessive. “It doesn’t matter how many men have had you, as long as you know who this,” one hand sliding over her thigh, cupping between her legs, “belongs to.”

He’s waiting for a reply, though, fingers doing little more than playing over her skin, and she turns her face into his throat and swallows down a moan. “You -- damn it, Athos, I need your --”

His low satisfied laugh rumbles up through her body with how they’re pressed together. “And you’d get it,” he assures her, though it’s his fingers that slide into her cunt, the sound positively obscene with how wet she is. She bucks up against the touch, needing him deeper, harder, _more_ , but his next words have the world hazing around her again.

“What a state you’re in -- disgusting, filthy, sore from their cocks and reveling in having their spend in you. I’d have to fuck it out of you, wouldn’t I? Fill you up until you remember your vows again, remind you of who you belong to …” His hand stills, fingers buried deep, palm curling over her slick sex possessively while the heel keeps a firm pressure against her clit, and she moans, trembles, writhes against his fingers until they begin to move again. His cock is still a brand against her back rather than inside where she needs it, but with the images he’s painting it might as well be that driving into her, making her ache. Her face is wet with tears, her body sticky with perspiration, and in her mind and in his words it’s the leavings of the entire garrison, slicking her holes and striping her flesh and heavy on her tongue as he fucks deep into her, fills her up anew, lays claim to her body as he’d long ago laid claim to her soul.

“You,” she gasps out in response to those words, to the question he does not need to ask at a time like this, not when her body is already making it plain, singing for his touch like it does for no one else, like it never has for anyone else, “you, it’s always been you,” and it’s a laugh, a moan, a desperate sob all at once as he wrings endless spasms of pleasure from her body, and then she cannot so much as think any more as it becomes impossibly too much, knows nothing but his voice and his hands, nothing but _him_ , and then nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Envision, sometime later, Milady all curled up in absolute exhaustion and Athos mumbling against her shoulder something like, "I'm never going to be able to look any of them in the face again." XD


End file.
